


Like I Do

by actualite



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Boston Red Sox, M/M, Texas Rangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualite/pseuds/actualite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian's never been brave enough to say what he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like I Do

There were those nights on road trips, nights when Ian would hear the knock on his door that he'd been waiting for, but would get up to open it without looking at Salty, letting him find his own way in to stand awkwardly by the bed watching Ian, wondering what to do next, trying as carefully as he could to gauge Ian's mood. 

Sometimes Ian would let him stand there for a long time, pretending to watch TV while he saw Salty shift his weight from foot to foot, his eyes darting around the room as he cast out desperately for some kind of signal, some kind of sign. And then he would let Salty catch his eye, just for a second, maybe say, _Well?_ impatiently, and Salty would smile, so relieved, and Ian would feel that strange dip in his stomach as Salty moved forward and put his arms around Ian, burrowing his face into Ian's neck and breathing deeply, squirming and squeezing and smothering. 

Some nights Salty would talk Ian's ear off. He'd try to ask Ian for advice, or he'd talk about his problems with the coaching staff, or he'd want to relive every bit of every game and analyze all of his mistakes and successes to death. He wanted to tell Ian his worries about his family and one night he had even made the mistake of mentioning his wife to Ian. 

"Are you serious right now?" Ian said, scowling at him. "I never want to hear about your wife, okay?"

Salty blinked at him with blank eyes, but he dutifully did not ever mention his wife again. 

Ian tried to say these sharp things, things to check Salty, just to make sure Salty knew that this was dangerous, that Ian was putting so much at risk and Salty was too, for that matter. Salty would hesitate, like a dog that had been struck for licking a bratty child's face but would tentatively continue anyway because surely it was all a misunderstanding. 

Then Ian would feel guilty and try to make up for it by sucking Salty off, by letting Salty kiss and stroke and fuck him, but never would Ian do any of it with kindness. 

After it was over--Ian boneless and quivering and nearly choking on all the feelings he could never admit to, and Salty sweaty and heavy, his eyelids drooping with sleepiness and so oblivious to the torment of their situation and the danger he was in--Ian would roll out of the bed and fling Salty's t-shirt and jeans at him, tell him roughly to get up, and then make his way to the shower without waiting to see if Salty obliged. He didn't need to wait, because Salty was always gone by the time Ian came out. And Ian would crawl back into the bed, bury his face in the soiled hotel sheets and imagine that he could still smell Salty in them, could still rub the scent of Salty all over himself even though he'd just done his best to wash it all away.

In the clubhouse the next day Ian would walk right by Salty sitting at his locker and ignore the furtive puppy eyes Salty followed him around with. He'd high-five Salty after scoring a run and pull his hand away when he felt Salty's fingers curl around his, felt him hang on a little too long, felt Salty looking back at him even though he knew everyone was watching them, _everyone was watching them_.

*

There were all the times Salty tried to tell Ian that he loved him. It was usually after sex, and Ian would say, "No you don't."

"Yes, I do," Salty would say determinedly, stroking down the side of Ian's damp face.

"Well, stop," Ian would say, jerking his head away, even though he was so tired and wanted nothing more than to curl into Salty's big body and let himself be stroked and petted and loved. "We're just fucking around here."

"I can't just stop," Salty would say, sitting up.

"I just want to rest," Ian would say, flinging his arm up to cover his face. "You don't know what love means."

"How can you even say that?" Salty would say indignantly. "You don't know what I feel."

Ian would lower his arm, then, and narrow his eyes at Salty, wanting to be cruel. "I bet you think you love your wife, too, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, but that's different--"

"You think if you loved her you'd be here right now?"

Salty's eyes would darken, his mouth taking on a mulish cast. "There are all different ways of loving a person--"

"No," Ian would say. "You're just being selfish, like everyone else. Like me."

Salty would be quiet after that, and Ian would kick him out soon after. The worst part, the part that made Ian such a horrible person, is that he knew that it was true. Salty did love him, and Ian used that fact all the time to get what he wanted from Salty while giving nothing in return. 

*

There were the long offseasons after he and Salty started doing what they were doing, the weeks and weeks of not seeing or hearing from each other, when Ian would get so crazy and desperate that he would throw his phone in a pond at the golf course early in the morning to keep himself from calling Salty. Even that didn't help, because he had Salty's number memorized, burned into his brain from all the time he spent staring at it on his contacts list before getting so mad at himself that he flung the phone away from him.

*

There were all the times Salty gave in. Like the time in San Francisco when Ian got so paranoid that someone would see Salty coming into his room that he made Salty get a room at another hotel way out in the suburbs under a fake name and use his credit card so it couldn't be traced back to Ian, and then not only refused to spend the night but also wouldn't let Salty stay the night in the room because someone might have recognized him coming out of it in the morning.

Or like the time Salty was supposed to fly back to Florida on an off-day before a road trip for his parents' anniversary celebration, but Ian made him cancel because he wanted to hook up and he didn't care about anything else. He was surprised when Salty actually agreed to it, but then Salty was so trusting, and of course he believed Ian when Ian threatened that if Salty did go to Florida instead of flying to Detroit with the team so that he could meet Ian that night, Ian would never meet up with him again.

There was the time after Salty had a rib removed to try to repair his throwing arm and save his baseball career, and he called Ian at the end of November, wanting to know if Ian thought it was a good idea that the team wanted Salty to go down to the Dominican Republic to play winter ball a mere six weeks after the surgery. 

"First of all, why the fuck are you calling me on this number?" Ian said, panicking and slipping out the back door so that he could speak without his wife hearing.

"Sorry," Salty said. "I just need some advice. Everyone's telling me something different."

"Well, how do you feel?"

"It's healing good but--"

"Then go," Ian said. "They already think you can't throw. You have to prove that it's in the past, that you can play through this stuff, or they're gonna trade your ass or release you and then it'll all be over."

Salty was silent on the other end for a while. "It's only been like six weeks," Salty said. "My doctor here says it's too soon but I just got off the phone with A.J. and Scott and they're all saying I should go down there."

"What did you tell them?" Ian said. Later he acknowledged that he wasn't thinking of Salty's arm and his surgery at all; he was thinking of what might happen if Salty didn't prove that he could do this. He was thinking about how he would lose Salty and go back to that aching, untenable loneliness, the gaping emptiness that he felt constantly before Salty had come into his life. And he was angry at Salty for getting himself into this position, for endangering his career, for even considering not doing everything he was told.

"I told them I was ready," Salty said, but he sounded unsure, and Ian ignored the tone.

"Well, there you go," Ian said. "Just go down there and prove everyone wrong about you."

"I don't know," Salty said. "It felt good the last couple days but today it hurts and I'm not sure I should play through this."

"They're gonna give it to someone else," Ian said, "if you don't--" _If you don't try,_ he was about to say, but he knew that the one thing Salty could do better than anyone else was try. Salty was always trying too hard.

"So you think I should go," Salty said.

"We have to take the opportunities we're given," Ian said, and he knew he was being hard, he knew he wasn't saying the right thing, but he was angry with Salty, with the team, with baseball, and he was so scared of what would happen if Salty wasn't good enough, if he turned out to be a bust.

"Look," he continued, before he could backtrack and say something softer, kinder, something that might make Salty think that failure was an option, "I need to go. You can't call me like this."

"I'm sorry," Salty said. "It doesn't feel right. I just wanted your advice. As a teammate."

"Well, now you have it," Ian said.

And Salty gave in, because he always gave in when Ian applied any sort of pressure. "Yeah, you're right. I should go. Okay. I'll catch you later--maybe," he finished uncertainly.

"Yeah. Bye," Ian said, and hastily hung up, hoping his wife wouldn't ask who was on the phone so that he'd have to make up yet another lie.

*

There was the time Salty tried to say he loved Ian when they didn't have all their clothes off and Ian hadn't just been fucked within an inch of his life. For some reason, being in public with all his clothes on made him more vulnerable to whatever ridiculous, unwise thing Salty had to say to him than he ever was in any hotel room or bathroom stall. 

They were in a huge crowd at Phoenix Raceway during Spring Training. Ian wasn't a big NASCAR fan but he'd always wanted to see a race in person and it so happened that they had on off-day on the same day as the race. Since neither of their families were in town Ian felt like maybe he could say yes to Salty's invitation without arousing any suspicion. He even let Salty hold his hand as they drove to the track. Salty let go of it only to switch gears and sometimes so that he could squeeze Ian's thigh.

Ian let himself pretend, that day, that they weren't married to other people, that they weren't big league ballplayers, that no one cared about two guys on a date. For once, he wanted to just relax and be himself, to not force himself to keep Salty at arm's length, and to feel what it would be like if everything were different.

Once they got to the track Salty kept putting his arm around Ian's shoulders as they watched the race, and Ian let him, telling himself that it was okay, that they were more anonymous in this crowd than they could be anywhere else. He laughed freely at all of Salty's stupid jokes and drank every beer Salty bought for him, and he yelled and whooped with the rest of the crowd as the engine noise built to a roar of exhilarating thunder. 

When the race was over and they got up to leave, the crush of people was so tight Salty was pressed against Ian's back as they inched up the stairs. Out of nowhere, Ian heard Salty whisper it, and Ian couldn't be sure of it, since it was more like feeling the vibrations of Salty's voice and a shift in the air at Ian's neck, but his knees nearly buckled just the same and Salty had to reach out to steady him.

"You alright?" Salty said, his giant hands holding Ian's arms.

"Fine," Ian said. "Just tripped. I must be more drunk than I thought."

He pretended he hadn't heard, and Salty hadn't ever tried to say it since.

*

There was the last time they were able to meet up just before Salty was traded to the Red Sox, when Ian was going insane with fear that Salty would never be called up, that he would be traded and Ian would see him three times a year at best, and maybe not at all. Or maybe that Salty would meet someone new, someone not so afraid, someone who didn't understand everything he stood to lose and everything Salty foolishly wanted to give away.

It was late at night and they were meeting in a hotel room, again, and Ian only had a couple of hours before he had to get on a plane. Salty had just come back from a very long road trip with the Triple A team and he looked so different, his face dark and tired and worn.

Salty didn't try to hug Ian when he came in, standing in his camo shorts, blue collared shirt and flip-flops with his hands on his hips.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Ian said, to keep himself from saying, _If you are taken away from me, I think I might die._

"Just got off the plane and don't have any clean shirts but the one I had to travel in," Salty said.

"Well, take it off," Ian said, reaching down to pull his own shirt over his head.

"Wait," Salty said.

Ian paused.

"I don't think I'm up for it tonight," Salty said.

"What?" Ian said, dumbstruck.

"I'm just--I'm real tired, Ian," Salty said.

 _Don't say my name,_ Ian wanted to say. _When I hear it everything in me starts to fall apart._

"Why the hell are we here, then?" he snapped instead, feeling his face flush.

"I thought maybe we could--we could just hang out for a while," Salty said.

"You do realize--" Ian began, but then he shut his mouth.

"Realize what," Salty said, smiling wryly, "that this might be the last time we see each other for a long time?"

"No," Ian said coldly, although it was exactly what he'd been thinking. "I was going to say you do realize that I have a plane to catch in two hours and it was a really big deal for me to even get here?"

"Well what the hell do you think it was for me, Ian, a fucking cake walk?" Salty said, and his eyes went even darker. "I just drove three and a half hours straight with two screaming kids in the car after a six-hour flight to get here early enough to meet you. And then I told my wife I had to leave her at home and couldn't tell her why."

"What did I say about mentioning your wife to me?" Ian said, raising his voice, his anger going white hot. _You could drive a thousand hours,_ he said silently, _and you'd never know how tortuous it is for me to feel like everything I'm supposed to be as a man is exactly the opposite of what I really am. And it's all because of you._

Salty closed his eyes for a moment, sighing once. "Okay. I'm sorry. We leave our lives behind at the door."

"It's the only way this works," Ian said.

Salty was silent, staring at Ian as if to say, _But this isn't working._ Ian averted his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge it, reaching instead to resume taking his shirt off. He tossed it onto a chair, and saw out of the corner of his eye that Salty wasn't moving. 

_Please,_ Ian wanted to say. _This is all we have. I just do this to be close to you. It's less dangerous than saying things, making promises we can't keep._

But still Salty wasn't making any move to join Ian. And that was the first moment that Ian felt Salty's resistance, the first time he'd ever realized that Salty might not be a sure thing. He'd worried that Salty would meet someone else, yes, but in the absence of that, with Ian right in front of him, Ian had always been sure that he could make Salty do anything.

Ian didn't know what to do, because he'd never really had to think of what to do where Salty was concerned. He'd always just done whatever he wanted to do, whatever he felt he had to do. It was like some strange standoff, he thought frantically. An unspoken challenge, something like a perverse game of chicken. He turned away, his hands suddenly trembling, and tried to undo his jeans, tried to feign the same self-absorbed entitlement he'd brought to every encounter with Salty, and prayed to the universe that it would work one more time.

When he felt Salty come up behind him and reach around to cover his hands, he was so relieved he nearly lost all his strength. Salty kissed his neck and shoulders, and Ian felt his panic subside. Salty would still come when Ian beckoned. _If you don't,_ Ian said silently, _I am lost, because I would be invisible to everyone, even myself, if you did not see me._

*

There were those furtive meetings after Salty was traded--two or three times during the season, once or twice during the offseason, and even once during the 2011 World Series. Ian wondered if Tess realized that it was always when the Red Sox were in town that he didn't come home at night.

Because it was after Salty was traded to the Red Sox that Ian realized he couldn't make himself leave Salty in that hotel room in the middle of the night anymore.

*

There was the day Ian realized it had been three or four meetings since Salty had even attempted to have any sort of conversation with him. 

Ian supposed the dropoff in conversation had been gradual; he remembered being glad several times when it seemed like Salty wasn't going to make things awkward with declarations of love or too much information about his family. Ian hadn't given it much more thought than that until one night during a series in Texas.

Salty had been nearly an hour later than he'd told Ian he would be in his text message. When he arrived Ian snapped, "Where have you been?"

"Busy," he'd said nonchalantly, and began to undress.

For once Ian wanted him to say more and thought about starting a fight, but he was so desperate to have Salty's hands on him that he pursed his lips and swallowed his anger down. And then he promptly forgot it all when Salty, who seemed to be in a businesslike mood, pushed him down onto his back on the bed, reached down to hold onto Ian's ankles, and then flipped Ian onto his stomach. It happened so quickly and smoothly that Ian gasped, and before he knew it Salty was fucking him, and it was as if Salty knew just what to do and exactly how many times to do it to please Ian as efficiently as possible.

When it was over Ian flopped over to stare at Salty, bemused, and he realized in shock that Salty had already stripped off the condom and thrown it away and was putting his pants back on. 

"That's it?" Ian said involuntarily.

Salty didn't even look up. "You want more?" he said, buckling his belt. He reached for his glasses, put them on and then finally turned to look at Ian.

"No," Ian said, the word coming automatically, his untruths long since a matter of habit.

"Well then," Salty said, and dug into his pocket for his phone. "I gotta get going."

Ian didn't answer, and Salty gave a little half-smile and half-wave, and then he was gone, and there was nothing in the room to show that Salty had been there at all except that Ian was sweaty and just a little sore.

The next time they saw each other was similar, though Salty wasn't late and he took a little more time, but he barely spoke to Ian and was gone immediately after.

It was very different, suddenly, and Ian began to see that fearing that Salty would meet someone else had been foolish, naive, a childish fear. Such an event would be simple, the emotions strong but uncomplicated. This--what was this? He felt like he was losing Salty even though things weren't really very different from how they had always been: They met in secret, they had sex, they didn't promise each other anything. What was this called? It wasn't friends with benefits, or fuckbuddies, because they weren't friends and certainly didn't have any interaction that would warrant the congeniality of the word "buddy." There was no name for it, and Ian didn't know how to regret something that he couldn't prove was lost. This was what he'd wanted, he told himself. Nothing Salty said worried him any longer because Salty hardly said anything. 

It wasn't just the words, though. Ian remembered the way Salty's hands used to linger on him at certain times, at his neck, at the small of his back, on his thigh, the way Salty would hold him possessively and lean his face in close to Ian's body, as if he were seeking something that existed only in that space closest to Ian's skin. Salty didn't do that anymore.

The only thing Ian had to hold on to was the fact that Salty kept coming. Something in him still needed this, Ian told himself, and that had to be enough, since all the rest had faded away.

*

It got so that Ian didn't even look forward to the sex anymore. Salty was clinical with it, robotic; they'd done it enough times that they both knew what the other liked, and each time they just went through the motions and then got dressed and said, "See you next time?" and "Yeah. I'll text you."

Sometimes Ian imagined that Salty trembled just a bit when he was inside, that first moment when he'd just pause, but then he'd hoist Ian up for a better angle and Ian knew he was just being maneuvered.

When Ian came it was almost like an involuntary physical reaction. He remembered in the beginning when he would feel flushed and hot all over from the very beginning, when Salty would look into his eyes with such worshipful intensity that Ian had to shut his own because of how troubling it was to be the recipient of that kind of adoration. Now they hardly ever did it in a way where they could see each other's faces, and Ian always had an odd feeling of detachment from whatever was happening.

But still he needed to see Salty more than he needed anything else, and sex seemed to be the only reason to entice Salty to meet him anymore. Ian knew it was his own fault, that he had made a grave mistake, a horrible miscalculation in not only his own feelings but in Salty's, too. But it was too late to fix it now. They had both changed, their roles reversed. Ian had never wanted feelings to be a part of it, but he recognized now that his feelings were the only thing that made what they were doing worthwhile, and he'd quenched Salty's completely by hiding his own so well.

They met four times in 2012, three times during the season and once in Florida, when Ian had flown there on a trip with some friends to the Everglades and then went to great trouble to stay an extra day so that he could casually text Salty to say that he was in the area. Each of these times Salty left immediately after finishing Ian off, always in a hurry to get somewhere, always texting someone on his phone or checking it to read the apparently endless stream of texts people sent to him. Salty seemed to be busy and popular, a huge change from what he'd been in Texas, and he was dressing and acting more and more like his new friends--more tattoos, more ugly camouflage-themed clothing and accessories, constantly dipping, caring less and less about hygiene.

They met in Texas in 2013 for the first time in six months and Salty was so tired he fell asleep while Ian was giving him a blowjob. Ian supposed he should've been insulted, and he probably would've been if it had happened when they first started doing this, but then Salty never would've fallen asleep back then, always too amped up and eager to please. When Ian realized what had happened, though, he was surprised to find that it was a relief. He moved up to lie next to Salty as carefully as he could, not wanting to wake him, and just looked his fill at Salty's face in repose.

Salty had gotten several new tattoos recently, including a sleeve on his upper left arm, and his hair was too long. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, he had a sore on his lip, and his beard was looking unkempt. He looked dirty, scruffier than he ever had, and so much older than the last time Ian had seen him.

It made Ian think of how young they had both been when they started this and of what it would be like to continue doing this for years to come. He'd been afraid, at first, of the shame of showing his need, thinking that the feelings he had for Salty were somehow unmanly. His understanding of what it was to be homosexual was rooted so deeply in what he'd learned in the locker room among a lot of stupid boys, but now he was a man and understood better that all the things he'd done to spare himself the humiliation and helplessness of loving and needing someone had just made his position all the more degrading and contemptible. What he and Salty did here was nothing more than a dirty secret, because Ian had wanted it like this and had done everything in his power to make it so.

Salty, though--Salty had been a man in a boy's body from the beginning, open and generous with his affection and feelings, wanting to share himself and ready to face the consequences. But Ian and everyone else had done their best to nip it all in the bud. And now--now--

Ian shut his eyes tightly, wishing that when he opened them the clock would've turned back and they could be in the hotel room that first time, when they'd stared at each other, knowing what they were both there for but not sure how to begin. Salty had been about to speak, about to say something, and then Ian, wanting to take the plunge and shut him up, afraid of what he would say, went forward and grasped Salty's shirt and pulled him down to kiss him.

If he could do it over again now, Ian would let Salty speak. And when Salty was done speaking, Ian would say all the things out loud that he'd felt from the beginning but that he'd only recently begun to believe.

Ian must've fallen asleep imagining it, because the next thing he heard was Salty swearing under his breath. He cracked an eye open and saw that there was light coming through the part in the curtains and Salty was sitting up, running his hands over his face and pushing his long, unruly hair back.

"Why'd you let me fall asleep?" he said, his voice rough, and then he stood up, reaching for his pants.

"Let you?" Ian said. "I had your dick in my mouth and I look up and you're out cold. Wasn't my fault."

"You should've woken me up. Fuck, I told Jonny I'd go look at a car with him before we went to the park. Ugh, is there a fucking toothbrush--I need coffee. This fuckin' blows."

"It's not my fault," Ian repeated, feeling terrible. There had been a time when Salty would've been so grateful for Ian letting him spend the night.

Salty ignored him, scrolling through something on his phone.

"Hey!" Ian said.

Salty looked up.

"If you had such important fucking plans maybe you shouldn't have bothered to come here last night," Ian said.

Salty rolled his eyes and turned away, not answering.

"I'm serious," Ian said, though he had a feeling starting this conversation wouldn't end well. "Why did you? If you're so fucking busy?"

"Why do you think, Ian?" Salty said, making his way to the bathroom. "I came to get off, same as you."

"Do your new friends know what you do to get off?" Ian said, though it was a pointless question, which Salty called him on immediately.

"My new friends? You mean like Naps, who has your number in his favorites and still tells me hilarious stories about what you guys got up to after games on the road for the last two years?"

Ian worked his jaw a few times, glowering at the empty room as he listened to Salty in the bathroom. Salty hadn't bothered to close the door and he was now taking a piss. It was ludicrous, really, how they did things in front of each other that Ian never did in front of anyone else outside of a locker room, like an old married couple, though there was nothing intimate about any of it, because Ian felt as emotionally remote from Salty as he did with strangers. Maybe more so, because at least with strangers there existed some possibility of future intimacy. Ian was pretty sure that door had shut with Salty long ago.

When Salty came back out he went over to the table to pick up his keys and then paused again to read something on his phone, and Ian couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore.

"They don't really like you, you know."

Ian saw Salty pause, and then he made a scoffing noise and turned around.

"Oh, yeah? How would you know?"

"It's not real. None of it is. You think you're this team and you go through shit together and you're bonding for life or whatever and everyone's on the same side but it's not like that."

Salty was resting one hand on his hip and looking over at the window. It made him look impatient.

"I think it's sick," Ian continued. "You're always trying to change yourself to make people like you. But trying so hard is the one thing that will never make people like you."

"You think I've changed?" Salty said, somehow ignoring all the malice in Ian's speech, and that made Ian even more frustrated.

"Fuck yes," Ian said.

"Why, because I don't come to you begging for it anymore?"

Ian didn't expect Salty to just come out with it like that, and he felt his face go hot. "Are you serious right now?" he said, his voice sounding pale and thin to his own ears.

"Like I said," Salty said, and he looked so calm, his eyes serious but serene. "I come here for one reason. Same as you. And I haven't changed, for them or anyone else. This is who I am."

"Who you are?" Ian repeated incredulously. "Everything about you is some lame attempt to broadcast to the world that you're one of them. Every ugly tattoo and your fucking disgusting hair and those dumbass t-shirts you always show up in--"

"I don't give a shit what you think," Salty said. "But, you know, sorry you feel that way."

That stung, like a sharp slap on skin already so raw.

"Fuck you," Ian said. "Seriously, why do you even come here anymore? I don't need to suck your dick so bad that I'll be grateful even when you fall asleep while I'm doing it."

"Honestly? Because I think picking up a guy on the street would get me into trouble I don't need."

"So I'm just a safe option," Ian said. "A cockslut that you don't have to pay."

"Fucking right you are," Salty said, his voice still maddeningly even.

"What if I don't care anymore?" Ian said. "What if I want them all to know what a fucking hypocrite you are, pretending to be some butch country guy who loves his wife and kids and doesn't do anything worse than fishing to get his rocks off? What would your friends think then?"

"Are you even listening to yourself? You seriously sound like a crazy person right now," Salty said, rolling his eyes.

"See how much these guys like and respect you then," Ian said venomously.

"What the hell are you talking about? Some of these guys are your friends too. Why are you so sure they like you but they're just faking it with me?"

"Because," Ian said, raising his voice, "I know when I deal with them that I'm faking it. I'm faking the whole thing, all of it, because I'm just a fucking fairy and I know they would hate everything I am if they ever found out. But you, you don't know the difference between what's real and what's not, and that's always been your problem. You grow a beard and start hanging out with fucking--Varitek or whatever, and now you think you're hot shit--"

"You're completely fucking wrong," Salty interrupted. "For you everything is always so black and white. What we do here and what we do in the rest of our lives. I'm just one person, Ian. I can't fucking be a different guy for every person in my life. Not like you do."

"What you're trying to do now--it's not you," Ian said slowly. And then, though he was afraid of even feeling the words in his heart, "I _know_ you, and this isn't what you are."

"You don't know me," Salty said, and for the first time he sounded angry. "You've never known me. You wanted a dick in your ass once a week and I was the only one around to give it to you. I guess I figured out that all I need from you is for you to let me buttfuck you once every six months. And that's great, that's fuckin' perfect, that's enough. That's _all_. So don't expect me to sit around here and listen to you insult me and my friends."

"They're not your friends!" Ian said. "They're just posers caught up in some idea they have of what they should be and you're going right along with them trying to change yourself because you think it makes you more of a man, to try to fit in with that, with them. But you have no idea, do you?"

"No, Ian," Salty said, "I think you're the one who has no idea." He pocketed his phone and keys and looked up at Ian again, putting his baseball cap on over his disgusting hair. "I've got somewhere to be, so I'm leaving. I'll see you around."

With that he turned and left, the door falling shut slowly behind him, not even a slam to satisfy Ian's spiked temper.

Ian sat there for a few seconds, his blood rushing in his ears, and tried to think back on what it was that had just happened. Was it over? What had Ian even been trying to say? He'd been so resentful that Salty now had other people in his life, people who were Ian's friends, even, and why did it even matter?

It was strange, being in love, Ian thought, his stomach feeling funny. It could consume him utterly, but even this sad, empty shell of a relationship that was held together only by occasional meetings for meaningless sex could be enough to keep him going, and the thought that his rash words could have ruined everything made him panic.

He scrambled out of bed, needing to catch up with Salty and make sure that they were still going to be able to meet up next time, because he needed that to look forward to, at the very least. He would promise, he told himself, he would promise Salty never to open his mouth again, to just be what Salty thought they were to each other and not demand anything more. He just had to make sure that there would be a next time.

Ian pulled on his t-shirt and shorts and ran out of the room, leaping down the stairs four at a time and careening around the landings. Salty couldn't have gotten far, and Ian slammed the door to the parking lot open and ran out onto the pavement. It was mid-morning and the lot was relatively empty, but Ian couldn't see Salty anywhere. Frantically, he rounded the corner to the north side of the building, and then he stopped short, reaching out to touch the wall of the building and shrinking into the shadows.

Salty was sitting in his rental car, and Ian almost would've doubted it was him except he would've recognized the curve of Salty's shoulders anywhere. Salty was slumped forward, his forehead resting on his hands, which were holding the top of the steering wheel. He was just sitting that way, not moving, and Ian was frozen too, watching, holding his breath and waiting for Salty to look up and reveal that he was talking on the phone or something, laughing at a joke. But he didn't. Ian wondered if he should go up to the car, to tap on the window and try to say something, but all he could think was, _Oh._

Ian had no idea how long he'd been standing there when Salty slowly sat up. He wiped at his face briefly with one hand and then started the car, driving away without seeing Ian.

*

*

*

"Hey."

Salty was standing in the doorway, and instead of turning around without meeting Salty's eyes and slinking into the room like they were doing something shameful, Ian made himself look up at Salty's face.

"Thanks for coming," he said.

Salty blinked at him, then brought his hand up to pull at his beard.

"You wanna come in?" Ian said, stepping back for Salty to pass.

"Okay," Salty said, and he came in, turning around once Ian had shut the door and standing with his hands resting on his hips.

Ian was so nervous he felt like he was going to throw up, and the words he wanted to say felt like they were stuck in his throat.

"What are you doing here, Ian?" Salty said finally, when Ian couldn't manage any words.

"I was just passing through," Ian said lamely.

Salty made a disbelieving sound. "Just passing through St. Louis during the World Series when I happen to be here?"

Ian worked his jaw, wondering how he was ever going to say what he wanted to say. Salty seemed impatient and downright hostile.

"Well," Ian managed slowly, forcing himself to speak, "we didn't get to see each other in June because I was hurt when we were supposed to be in Boston."

"So you decided to give me a call since you were 'just passing through'?" Salty said.

Ian nodded.

Salty smiled humorlessly, shaking his head. "If you came all this way just for a fuck you should just say so," he said. "It's not like I've ever turned you down for that, have I?"

Stung but knowing he deserved it, Ian frowned, setting his jaw. "That's actually not why I wanted you to come meet me," he said.

Salty straightened, his face going still and his eyes shuttering.

Ian didn't know what that meant, but he was so nervous and was still trying to decide on the right way to say what he had to say. He looked away, turning toward the mirror and fiddling with the piece of folded cardboard on the table letting the occupants of the room know about the wireless Internet.

"I hate the beard thing," he said, to stall for time. "You keeping it after this is all over?" It was true; he'd always hated the idea of playoff beards and thought they were gross, but more because of what it meant that Salty was growing one so determinedly along with all the other guys.

"Don't know," Salty said evenly. "I kinda like it. So do my kids." He paused for a moment, then added, "You and my wife are the only ones who don't like it."

Ian wasn't sure if that was supposed to be an insult or not, but if it was, he was determined to just take it. "I guess we have a lot in common," he said woodenly.

Salty didn't answer. The seconds ticked by and the silence drew out, longer and longer.

"Uh," Salty said finally, "we have to play a game tomorrow. I can't sit here all night. What do you want from me?"

Ian was starting to have doubts. He'd come here nervous but sure of one thing: that what he'd seen of Salty that last time, when he'd looked so defeated alone in his car after being so remote and disinterested in the hotel room when Ian had been sniping at him, meant that Salty did still care, that all the ways he'd changed since they'd begun this thing were purely an act, that he was the same Salty underneath: desirous of Ian's attention and approval, stung by Ian's unkindness, and unable to hide his feelings. He may have grown a disgusting shell with all his new friends, with his newfound professional confidence, with his age and experience, but it was all an act.

He'd been so sure when he saw Salty sitting in his car with his head down, and he'd been sure in all the months afterward whenever he recalled that image. It was what had driven Ian to making this fool's errand, this grand gesture. But seeing Salty now, as even-keeled and remote as he had ever been in Ian's presence, Ian knew he must have been dreadfully mistaken. Maybe even if Salty did still care it was all too late to make up for all the things Ian had done wrong from the beginning.

Ian moved his mouth but he felt as if his voice were gone.

"Jesus, Ian, of all nights to be fucking with me this is probably the worst. Are you doing this on purpose?"

Ian was shocked at the note of anguish he heard in Salty's voice, and he turned around to look at Salty squarely.

"Fucking with you? I'm not trying to fuck with you."

"Well then why the hell am I here? Why did you call me? Why would you do this now?"

"I just thought--" Ian swallowed, the words sticking his throat again. "I just remember when you flew to St. Louis when we were in the World Series and surprised me and--"

"And you were fucking furious with me because your whole family was here and then you pretty much blamed me for the fact that you guys lost Game 6."

"I didn't," Ian said, feeling regret in every bone in his body. He remembered taking his frustration out on Salty, spouting a lot of superstitious nonsense that he didn't even really believe but that he couldn't help attributing to Salty, who had just absorbed it all and let Ian exhaust himself with a pretty epic tantrum.

"Yes, you did," Salty said, crossing his arms.

"If I said anything like that--I didn't mean it," Ian said. "I was glad you came and if you hadn't--" he broke off.

"If I hadn't..." Salty prompted.

Ian looked up at Salty again. He had a cap pulled low over his eyes so Ian couldn't see them very well. Ian wished he would take it off. He looked so remote and forbidding, especially with the big beard and his winter clothes--so different from what he had been when Ian first fell in love with him.

"Things have changed a lot," Ian said. "Since when we started, I mean. You've changed a lot--"

Salty's eyes narrowed.

"And I have too," Ian said hastily. "I want you to know that."

Salty still didn't say anything, didn't nod or make any slight movement of encouragement, and Ian knew he was on his own for this. He may have embarked on this misguided visit under a sad delusion about their relationship being reparable, but he was here, and he had to try.

"I just want you to know that--that I've been thinking a lot about some of the things I said last time and--and a lot of the things I never said before that. And I came here because I wanted you to know that I--that you're--important to me, and it meant something to me when you showed up here two years ago and I wanted to do the same for you because--because I hope it means something to you, too."

Salty was still as a statue. And then he stood up abruptly.

"Sorry, I can't do this tonight," he said. "I know you've come a long way and I appreciate it. But I still have a bunch of work to do--I've still got some stuff I need to look over again and--you know."

Ian felt that gaping emptiness open up inside him.

"Your timing is just--I thought we were gonna just--do what we do," Salty continued, his hands on his hips. "But I got a real big day tomorrow and I gotta focus on that. This is--I can't talk about this."

"Okay," Ian said hollowly, because there was nothing else to say, and all the courage it had taken for him to come here and say what was so difficult to say had been for nothing.

Salty cleared his throat. "I gotta--I gotta get back to the hotel," he said. "I'll be in touch, yeah?"

"Yeah," Ian said, feeling like this wasn't really happening. It all felt so different from what he'd thought it would be. Everyone always said you had to take risks to get what you wanted. But they never told you what to do when those risks failed. This was supposed to have been Ian's grand gesture, the thing to convince Salty that Ian was willing, now, to do what he'd always failed to do before--to do what Salty had tried to do from very the beginning. But it was too late.

"See you…around," Salty said awkwardly, and then he turned to leave. The door shut behind him and Ian stood rooted to the floor long after Salty left.

Ian was on a plane back to Dallas by six the next morning. 

*

There were all the days Ian spent trying not to think about Salty.

Ian didn't watch the rest of the World Series, preferring instead to completely ignore and avoid all coverage of baseball for a while. He couldn't help hearing that the Red Sox won, of course, and thought about how weird it was that Salty had a ring now and he didn't, after everything that had happened since they'd been on the Rangers together. Ian had always been used to thinking of himself as better than Salty at pretty much everything, but now Salty had realized something that Ian and every other baseball player had dreamed of since childhood. He had achieved it with the people Ian didn't want to believe were his friends, and Ian had had no part in Salty's success, not the work he did to achieve it and certainly not the elation he'd experienced afterward.

He supposed they would see each other again, and maybe even meet up to have sex, but Ian didn't even know if there was any point. He'd missed all of his opportunities to make something of their relationship, and he was now coming to feel that relationships only meant something if you could look forward to their future, to some dimension and richness they might bring to your life, and he could see no future with Salty if they tried to keep on the way they had been. Salty apparently had passed the point of wanting anything more from Ian than a way to get off that wouldn't result in an embarrassing Deadspin scandal. Ian of five years ago would have welcomed this, but Ian of five years ago had been stupid and short-sighted and so full of fear and self-loathing and ambition that he had boxed himself into a life that didn't feel like his.

It wasn't until he'd come back from a fishing trip a few days after the end of the World Series that he met up with some friends who began talking about Salty's botched throw and the interference call that had ended Game 3, which was the game that had taken place the day Ian left St. Louis. It was also then that he found out Salty had been benched for the remainder of the series and hadn't been on the field when they won after all year of being the starting catcher.

Objectively, Ian agreed with the move. If he had been managing the Red Sox, he would have done the same, especially since he'd never rated Salty's baseball intelligence very highly, recognizing early on that what skill Salty did have was due almost wholly to his work ethic and his dedication and not any innate talent or acumen. And Salty in high leverage situations had never been reliable; sometimes he came through, but mostly he got too amped up and emotional and did something unwise.

But as a player, and as someone who cared about Salty, Ian couldn't stop thinking about it, and about bigger questions, too, like why they gave so much of themselves for a sport that didn't reward loyalty, honesty, and hard work as a rule. Ian himself was pushing the limit of his own usefulness as a player; perhaps it was the knowledge that the brief period of his career during which he could command his own fate was rapidly drawing to a close, or perhaps it was just the desire to be someone Salty wanted to confide in again, to be someone worthy of his confidence, but Ian couldn't stop thinking about what their relationship could have been from the start, how much they could've helped each other if Ian had let Salty speak when he wanted to, if he had let them be more to each other.

It was a terrible thing to admit to himself, but some part of Ian had, in the first moments after learning of the incident, delighted in Salty's failure. When he saw the replay, he recognized the Salty who was overeager and unwise, trying too hard to be heroic and play to the moment rather than trusting himself and letting the game play out the way it should've. It was the Salty he'd played next to on their baby team, their naive group of boys who'd hoped to burn a new path to the playoffs for a franchise nobody took seriously. This was Ian's Salty, and it made Ian feel that poisonous happiness of security, that dark side of love that promised that a crippled bird would never fly away.

But even as he felt this, Ian struggled with his guilt. Was he truly such a small person that he could truly take pleasure, even fleetingly, in the regression and public humiliation of a person he cared about so much? Salty had been right, Ian realized. Maybe it wasn't Salty who had changed, who had moved on to new friends and new interests. Maybe he'd just turned to those things because Ian had changed and allowed his feelings to stunt and cheapen him, and he was no longer someone Salty cared to spend time with beyond the time spent on getting off safely and discreetly.

It was the middle of November, when Ian was driving Rian to a birthday party from school, that his phone vibrated in his pocket. Thinking it was a text from his wife, Ian dug it out to glance at the screen, but then he nearly dropped it when he saw that it was a text from Salty. He hastily stuffed it back into his pocket, looking up furtively at Rian in the rear view mirror to see if she noticed, which was ridiculous, because she was wholly absorbed in playing a game on her own tablet.

Ian was desperate to read the text but he couldn't, not in front of his daughter, and it sat like a burning coal in his pocket. The drive to the party seemed interminable, as did the smalltalk he had to make with the other parents who were dropping their children off, but finally he got back into his car and drew his phone out with shaking hands.

_In Dallas tonight. Can you meet up for a couple of hours?_

It had been years since Salty had been the one to initiate a meeting, mostly because Ian used to get angry with him every time he tried.

 _Yeah. I'll text you rm #.,_ he texted back.

It only took a few seconds for Salty's reply to come through.

_Ok. I'll be there around 10._

That evening after bringing Rian home Ian told his wife he was going out with some friends to play poker, and then he drove to the hotel they always used when meeting in Dallas and asked for a room, which was the hardest part. Ian always wore a cap pulled low over his eyes and had to trust that the clerk at the desk wasn't a baseball fan and that his picture wouldn't end up on Twitter or whatever. 

It was 9:59 when Salty knocked on the door of the room; Ian knew because he'd been checking the time obsessively.

"Hey," Ian said when he opened the door and Salty came in. "You're on time, for once."

Salty shrugged off his jacket, tossing it on a chair and then turning around, resting his hands on his hips and looking over at Ian.

"I used to be early every time," Salty said.

Ian didn't know what to do with his hands, which were trembling again. "I remember," he said, and then went over to the bed and sat down, clasping his hands.

"So," Ian continued, when Salty didn't move, "what are you doing in Dallas?"

"Came to see you," Salty said bluntly.

"Okay," Ian said. He tried to read Salty's face. Did Salty want to talk, or did he want to fuck?

Ian had his answer when Salty reached down and started unbuttoning his shirt. Disappointed, Ian moved to do the same, removing his watch and wedding ring and pulling his own shirt over his head.

Then they were both undressed, and Salty came forward, taking Ian's jaw in his hand and kissing him full on the mouth. Ian was surprised and broke away.

"Your beard is itchy," he said.

Salty just stared at Ian intensely for a moment, his brown eyes clear and penetrating. "Did you bring stuff?" he said finally.

"Yeah," Ian said, gesturing at the bedside table, where he'd put the lube and condoms.

Salty reached for them and Ian prepared to turn around on his stomach but Salty stopped him and pushed him down gently on his back. Ian felt himself start to get hard.

"Here, jerk me off a little," Salty said, sitting back a little so he was kneeling over Ian. Ian reached for Salty's dick, the warm weight of it so familiar in his hand. As he was pulling Salty off Salty reached forward and grasped Ian's hips, the calluses on his hands scratching the sensitive skin on Ian's stomach. Ian got even harder; this was different from anything they'd done in a long time, especially since Salty just kept staring at Ian, his eyes moving over Ian's body and back up to his face.

Then Salty moved his hands down between Ian's legs and grasped the upper part of Ian's thighs, pushing them apart and propping his knees up. Ian's breath caught in his chest, but all he could do was watch as Salty deliberately uncapped the lube and then reached down to begin fingering Ian.

He was moving so slowly, every motion agonizingly deliberate, and Ian could feel his body pulsing around Salty urgently, but Salty did not move any more quickly. It was as if he were trying to savor every inch of Ian's body, every tiny movement, and even as Ian felt himself growing less and less aware of anything but Salty's hands, there was something unsettling about the intensity of his focus.

But Salty had such good hands, knowing how to be gentle with them and also how to impart their strength and size occasionally with a sudden or surprising pressure, and Ian again felt the thrill of surrendering to an invasion, something that he had to guard so carefully against in every other aspect of his life but that he could welcome here with the only person he trusted to do it right. So he nudged the feelings of unease away, and when Salty pushed into Ian the first time Ian curved his back and gave in, bracing his hands against Salty's chest.

"Yeah," Salty said, "hold on to me, baby." 

It was the kind of thing he used to say in the beginning, the kind of thing that used to make Ian cringe and feel like he was in some kind of amateur porn film. Ian learned very early on that Salty got the most worked up when Ian played up how much he needed Salty, when he reached for him and said his name desperately and begged for his cock because he wanted it inside him so much, but Ian had always been resistant to indulging it too much because of the look Salty would get on his face and the things he would say to Ian, the clumsy endearments and mushy entreaties that Ian's brain rebelled against, even if his heart did not.

Now, though, Ian made no attempt to stop Salty from saying it. Ian was surprised at how deeply it affected him, hearing Salty adjure him to hold on, hearing him call Ian "baby," which should have been insulting and embarrassing, but instead now made him flush even more. No one else made Ian feel strong and small at the same time, he thought feverishly as Salty moved in him. No one else made him feel as if he were enduring something no one else could endure, resisting in a way no one else could, and then, miraculously, giving in completely in some kind of transformative exposure of his true self.

It was only now that Ian began to see this, to understand the import of what only Salty could make him feel, and he'd never been more devastated when Salty finished, breathing hard and pulling out of Ian, flopping down on his back beside him.

Not wanting Salty to see his wrecked face, Ian hurriedly rolled out of the bed and made his way to the bathroom to clean himself up. When he had composed himself, he came out and saw that Salty was dressed and now buckling the clasp on his watch. He didn't look up when Ian walked out. Ian went to the other side of the bed and sat down, his back to Salty, and wondered if he could stand another wordless goodbye. But he'd made an overture the last time they saw each other, and Salty had been very clear that he wasn't willing to have any kind of conversation about their relationship. Ian knew he had no right to push it, not after years of cutting Salty off every time he'd wanted to talk.

"What time is it?" he said instead, not really caring, but wanting to hear Salty's voice.

"Almost 10:30," Salty said.

"I'm tired," Ian said dully as he picked at a hangnail.

"Me too," Salty said.

"Where are you staying?" Ian said, turning his head slightly.

"Don't know yet. Came here straight from the airport. I fly out again in the morning."

"You might as well stay here. Use the room. I have it for the night."

Salty was silent, and Ian twisted all the way around to be able to look at Salty directly.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving," Ian said stiffly. "You'll have it to yourself."

Salty just stared at Ian for a long moment. Ian became acutely aware again that he was still naked and Salty was already fully dressed. _Fuck it_ , he thought. It wasn't as if he could hide anything from Salty anyway. Not anymore.

Then Salty turned away again so that his back was facing Ian. "I ain't never been worried about that. You're the one who always kicked me out after you got what you came for."

Startled, Ian tried not to let the hope that flared up in his chest lead him to saying or doing something stupid.

"I wish I hadn't," he said carefully. _Is it too late for us?_ he wanted to demand of Salty. _Is this all we will ever be to each other?_

"Why?" Salty asked, still facing away from Ian. 

The little streak of hope kindled and began to grow. Maybe Salty had come to listen. Maybe this was going to be the conversation Ian had wanted to have in St. Louis.

"Because--because later, when you started leaving without me asking you to...that was so much worse than anything I thought I had to be afraid of when I used to kick you out."

"I don't understand you," Salty said abruptly, turning to look at Ian again, and he looked annoyed. "I don't know what you want from me. I don't know what you want me to be."

Ian wanted to reach out and hold Salty close, clasp him tightly so that he could feel Salty near but not have to look into his eyes, which was so hard when Ian knew they were going to speak the truth to each other now, maybe for the first time ever.

"First of all," he began slowly, "I guess I don't want you to have to ask me anymore what you need to be, because all I want is for you to be--yourself." He cleared his throat, trying to push on and ignore all the social conditioning that was telling him now that he shouldn't say these words. "Maybe what needs to happen is I need to ask you what you want _me_ to be."

There was a long pause. "I don't know," Salty said finally.

It wasn't an encouraging answer, especially when Ian was trying to admit how wrong he'd been, but at least Salty wasn't shutting the door in his face.

"I spent all those years scared," Ian said, "and trying to pretend I didn't really want what I wanted." _I'm sorry for what I put you through,_ he wanted to say.

"Do you even like me?" Salty said. "Like, as a person?"

"What? Of course I do," Ian said. "Why would you--I mean, _yes_."

"It's just that you used to tell me to not even talk." He sounded so defeated, and if Ian hadn't been convinced already that he was a horrible person, this simple reminder of what he'd done to someone who'd loved him unabashedly would have done it.

"I'll tell you what I liked," Ian said. "I liked how the first time we met you hugged me and then followed me around all day asking me questions about everyone and everything."

He looked up and saw Salty smile ruefully. "Man, I was an annoying little pissant."

"There was nothing little about you," Ian said, remembering what Salty had been like when he first came to the Rangers in July of 2007. He'd been massive, with the face of an angel and the strength of a bear, and that first hug when he'd lifted Ian off the ground had made Ian reevaluate everything he'd ever thought about his ability to stay closeted for the rest of his life and stop fantasizing about having a boyfriend.

"We're gettin' old, Ian," Salty said.

"You stop that," Ian scoffed, waving his hand at Salty. "Maybe I am. You're a free agent at the peak of your career. Things are just starting for you."

"I just want to be settled," Salty said. "I want to know where I stand. With the people I care about, with baseball, my career."

"Well, I signed a five-year contract, and after only two years they're talking about trading me every fucking day," Ian said. "You picked the wrong career if that's what you wanted."

"I know," Salty said. 

There was another short silence. Ian studied Salty's profile carefully. Under the beard and the limp, thinning hair he still looked like that boy with the perfect face and the kind, soft eyes.

"Do they ask too much of us?" Salty asked suddenly, turning to look at Ian.

"Who?" Ian asked, though he knew.

"Them. Baseball. Owners and coaches and fans. Even teammates."

"Maybe. But we want it all so bad," Ian said. "And once you start it's hard to give up."

"We have to live the life we're expected to," Salty said. "Is that why you were always so--so hard on me?"

"Something like that," Ian said, though it was shameful to say it out loud.

"I thought I came here to say goodbye," Salty said, still looking at Ian steadily.

Ian felt the words as if they pierced his heart in one clean stroke.

"I've been trying to please everyone for my whole life and lately it seems like all I do is fake it. And I've been trying to fake it with you, act like I didn't care either--but I can't do it anymore."

Ian swallowed.

"Do you realize," Salty was saying, "that this is the first real conversation we've had where we're not yelling at each other or--do you realize it's been years, probably?"

"I tried," Ian said, feeling like he couldn't breathe, "when I went to St. Louis, I wanted to try to fix it--"

"That wasn't any time for a talk," Salty said. "I think you knew that."

Ian worked his jaw, unable to meet Salty's eyes. It was true. He'd wanted credit for making the effort without having to do any of the hard work, without the words.

"I remember way back when, and all you had to do was look at me the right way and I'd have done anything you wanted. Anything you asked," Salty said.

"I remember," Ian said with difficulty.

"And hell, I wanted you to ask. I wanted you to tell me what to do, because I would've done anything. All of it. In a heartbeat."

"That's exactly why I didn't ask," Ian said. _Don't you see?_

"Couldn't you have explained that to me?" Salty said, and for the first time he sounded anguished. "Instead of punishing me for telling you I loved you? You made me think that all you cared about was this." He made a vague gesture at the bed. "I trusted you and I wanted you to trust me."

"I did," Ian said. "If I didn't I wouldn't have practically begged you to visit me in every road hotel with the rest of the team just down the hall."

"You didn't beg," Salty said. "You acted like you were doing me a favor."

Ian knew that's what it must have seemed like. And there was nothing he could do to change the past. All he could do, he knew, was try everything he could to make a future for them.

Without thinking too much about it, he got up slowly and made his way around the bed--such a big bed!--until he was standing in front of Salty. And then he knelt down, resting his hands on Salty's knees.

"I'm begging now," he said, looking up at Salty's face. "Give me the chance to do better."

Salty ducked his head and then reached down for Ian's hands.

"C'mere," he said, and pulled Ian up and forward so that he was sitting in Salty's lap, his knees splayed on either side of Salty's hips.

"I love you," Ian said quietly, putting his hands up to cup Salty's face between them. "I've loved you from the beginning and I think I always will. That's what I should've said to you every day."

"Ian," Salty said, closing his eyes and leaning forward to rest his forehead against Ian's.

"But I was too fucking scared to," Ian said.

"And now?" Salty said, drawing back, his wide eyes bottomless as he gazed at Ian. "What's changed? We're still married. We're still ballplayers. No one's going to like this."

"Maybe not. But I don't want to lie to myself or you anymore. Because next to my kids--you're the most important person in my life, Jarrod."

Salty smiled, suddenly, his eyes crinkling down at the corners, and Ian felt his heart stutter.

"I want to start this over," Ian pleaded. "Not faking it anymore. And maybe--maybe for now we have to meet like this, on the down-low, but someday--someday--"

"Shh," Salty said. "We can figure it out."

Ian wrapped his arms around Salty's neck and held on, thinking of the future, when maybe they could live together, when their families could know, when everything could be out in the open. Ian wanted that more than anything.

"Everything's going to change," Salty said. "I had to come see you because--because I thought I was at a crossroads."

"You are," Ian said, drawing back again. "You have some big choices to make about where you wanna be next year, how you want the rest of your career to go--"

"Will you help me?" Salty said simply.

"Me?" Ian said, startled.

"You're so smart, baby. I want you on my side. That's all I've ever wanted."

Ian smiled, smoothing an errant curl away from Salty's forehead. "Yeah. I'm on your side."

Salty tipped Ian over so he sprawled on his back on the bed, and then Salty trapped him with his arms on either side of Ian's shoulders.

"Finally," he said, and leaned down to kiss Ian's neck. "It'll be alright now."

 _Yeah_ , Ian thought, looking up at the ceiling. _Everything will be alright._

*

The next morning Ian woke up to the sound of Salty coming back into the room.

Glancing at the clock by the bed, Ian saw it wasn't even seven yet.

"The fuck are you doing up so early?" he groaned, propping himself up to squint over at Salty.

Salty walked over and flung the covers off of Ian, grabbing his hand and pulling him up. "C'mere," he said, and led Ian toward the bathroom.

Ian stumbled after Salty, barely awake and very confused, the bright lights on in the bathroom making him squint even harder.

"Okay," Salty said, putting down the toilet cover and sitting down on it. He sounded very excited. "There's a surprise in the bag."

Ian yawned, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror as he reached for the bag, which looked like it was from the hotel gift shop downstairs. Looking into it, he was puzzled for a moment. There was a travel size bottle of shaving cream, a razor, and what looked like a pair of nail scissors.

Then he looked over at Salty, who was grinning as if he were very proud of himself.

"Are you messing with me right now?" Ian said. He couldn't help smiling. "'Cause you shouldn't joke about this. This is serious. This is, this is toying with my emotions right here."

"Nope. I'm 100% serious. It's time," Salty said. "I was hoping you'd do it for me."

"Heck yes," Ian said, reaching into the bag for the scissors. "Although you really should've gone to Target or somewhere and gotten an electric clipper. This is gonna be tough with scissors."

"I trust you," Salty said. "You'll do it right."

Ian smirked and brandished the scissors, grabbing a handful of Salty's beard and tugging his chin up. "You don't know how much I've dreamed about this," he said. "Here goes."

"Do your worst," Salty said. "I'm ready."

It took a long time to trim the beard down close to Salty's face, especially since the scissors were of very poor quality, but Ian couldn't help standing back to admire his work when there remained only a very ragged stubble on Salty's chin. His skin was bumpy under where the beard had been, bumpy and pale, but he was smiling and urged Ian to proceed with the razor. Ian hadn't been expecting to do that part too, and since he'd never shaved another man he was a bit nervous, but Salty held on to Ian's bare hips as Ian carefully tilted Salty's head from side to side and then back so that he could do Salty's neck.

When he'd scraped the shaving cream away he couldn't help but lean in close to nudge his way up along Salty's neck, breathing in the sharp smell left behind by the perfumey cream and that much softer, warm smell that was uniquely Salty's. When he finished and everything was smooth and bare, the remains of Salty's beard scattered all over the tile on the floor, he made Salty get up to rinse his face off. Before Salty could reach for a towel Ian tugged at his hand. 

Salty turned, and Ian quickly dragged his face down and kissed him, relishing the damp, cool smoothness of Salty's skin against Ian's own stubbly face.

"I didn't appreciate this enough when I had it before," Ian said.

"It's been me underneath the whole time," Salty said, his hands resting at Ian's hips.

"I know," Ian said. _Now I know._


End file.
